A Case of Resurrection
by Evenlodes Friend
Summary: John struggles to cope with his grief and anger after Sherlock's death at Reichenbach.  My version of what happens next.  Themes of grief, rage, violence and homosexuality - don't like, don't read.  Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Aftermath

**A/N** We have that sword of Damocles hanging over us, so I thought I'd get my two pennies worth in before the final show in the series is broadcast. This is my take on the aftermath of Reichenbach.

Please note, I wrote this story back in the summer, just after a family bereavement, with the intention of externalising some personal grief. It's pretty raw and angry, but then I think that is what grief is.

Eagle eyed readers will note the homage to Pratchett's Foul Ole Ron and his famous, or infamous, Smell. Sorry, I couldn't help it, it just came out.

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, or the Conan Doyle canon. Oh, if only I did!

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><p>Mycroft brought him back from Switzerland in a private jet. Afterwards he found he could not remember anything about the journey. He went to the memorial service that Mycroft organised, and stood as chief mourner beside mother and brother, too numb to be touched by their acceptance of his precedence, of the depth of his loss. He was amazed by the number of people who came, not just friends of the family but people who had reason to be grateful, and others who had genuinely liked a difficult man. Everyone agreed it was a tragedy that they had no body to bury. Even Sally Donovan came forward at the end, hugged him, and told him she was deeply sorry for his loss. He didn't know what to say to her. He had no words for any of them.<p>

To begin with, he just sat in the darkened living room, surrounded by the clutter, experiments left half finished, piles of newspaper clippings, case files. Mrs Hudson brought him plates of food that he poked at for her sake, and then scraped into the bin when she had gone.

Sarah was very kind. She put him on sick leave immediately, since it was clear he was completely unable to concentrate on anything, let alone his patients. She was even understanding about the end of their relationship.

'It's alright, John. I knew from the start that you were in love with him, even if you didn't.'

Greg Lestrade looked in on him occasionally, bringing six packs of beer and DVDs. John did his best to be sociable. Mycroft would come too, but not under any pretence of trying to cheer him up. They would sit on the sofa and stare at the television, too broken to make any effort at conversation, too united in their grief to pretend that they heard or understood the quacking voices in the soap operas or documentaries they watched. At 11pm, Mycroft would get up and embrace John sadly, and then without a word, disappear into the night.

Eventually it was decided by someone – though John was at a loss to recall who – that he needed some kind of occupation to fill his time. He began to go for a few hours every day to help Molly Hooper at the Barts Mortuary. She gave him little jobs to do, manual tasks that did not require him to think. He found her company undemanding. She sniffed a lot, but she was almost as destroyed as John was, so she did not try to make idle conversation or to comfort him.

John did not want comfort.

Through each long night, he sat at the kitchen table, his gun carefully prepared and cocked, set on the melamine in front of him, its cool steel giving off an invitingly terminal sheen. Every morning, he wondered how he had made it through another night, how he had managed to convince himself that the world was still worth living in, without that wonderful, infuriating, brilliant, beautiful man in it.

Sarah convinced him to see a bereavement counsellor, despite his arguments that the PTSD counsellor he had seen when he had come out of the army had been of little or no help at all. He went twice a week for an hour. He talked. He sank into his memories, all those wonderful, irritating, exhilarating moments they had shared. Eventually the woman told him that she thought he needed to move on from reliving their life together, and start thinking about rebuilding. After that, he did not go back.

At first, he thought he saw that familiar, horse-like face everywhere. In the street mostly, staring out from buses, disappearing around corners in the supermarket, head and shoulders above the crowds in Oxford Street. He began to wander in busy areas, hoping to catch a phantom glimpse, even though he knew it was a common symptom of grief, and an illusion. One day he thought he saw him getting into a taxi, and he raced through the crowd but the cab had already pulled away, and he stood there on the kerb, sobbing and impotent. An old lady came up to him, rested a kind hand on his forearm, asked if he needed any help.

'I've just lost the love of my life,' he told her, through his tears, and she nodded and embraced him tenderly. She was a widow too, she explained. Would he like a cup of tea – they could talk about it together, and perhaps it would help both of them. But he couldn't face it, though he was grateful. He would have had to explain, and it was too much.

As the months wore on, he would look into the mirror in the morning, forcing himself to shave, and not recognise the shadow of the man that looked back at him, the shrunken face and hunted eyes. He was becoming a ghost, drifting into the veil of the un-living. He had lost the will to die as well as the will to live.

Six months on. A homeless man had started living on the corner just up from the flat, a tall stick-figure of a man with a huge mat of knotted, filthy hair and beard, and a shambling gait. He shuffled up and down the street, muttering. The knees of his soiled grey jogging pants bagged. He smelt atrocious. Sometimes he would stand outside the flat on the pavement at night, just staring at nothing. John would watch him from the window, knowing that was how he would end up himself soon enough. He would give the poor sod a tenner every now and then, when he walked past his cardboard box. Eventually, the residents association complained, so the police made him move on, and John found that he was sorry.

As the winter deepened, the hallucinations faded. John walked through the crowds but never saw the comforting face. He would sit on the bus home from Barts, and find his cheeks wet with tears.

One windy afternoon, he came across the violin under a pile of papers, and lay with it in his arms on the sofa through the long night, cradling its wooden curves, breathing in its deep, waxen scent. The scent of his loss. He tried to pluck it, hoping for comfort, longing for it to sing again as it has once done, but all that came out were a few wretched twangs, like the snapping of heart strings.

The nights lengthened. Twinkling lights began to appear in windows. Slade blurted out of every shop doorway. John hid away again, climbed under his duvet and decided he would not get up again until February. Wretched in the midwinter gloom, regrets crowded in on him, along with the shadows.

'I never told him,' he snarled at himself. 'Why the fuck did I never tell him?'

Sarah insisted on prescribing him sleeping tablets, but he did not get the script made up.

March came, sharp and frosty, but with bright, clear skies, and John began to walk again, stomping through the parks as he had done long ago to escape the flat and its infuriatingly selfish inmate. Now he did it because he was afraid to stay inside with his memories. The pain in his chest where his heart used to be had taken on a frenetic, buzzing quality that made his hands shake, made him so restless he could barely sit still. Now he would walk and walk and walk until his legs would no longer hold him up, and he had to stagger out into the road for a bus to take him home. He couldn't take taxis any more. The memories were too much.

One day, he was yomping through Hyde Park, his brain blank save for the pain, when a familiar figure shuffled up to him. He was even more hairy than before, but it was the same homeless man who had been the thankful recipient of his money in Baker Street.

'Spare some change, doc?' He croaked.

John dug in his pockets. He had a five pound note. He held it out to the man. Filth-rimed fingers took it, and a hand reached out to pat his arm gratefully. The stench was as strong as ever. Then the figure limped away into the trees, stuffing the money into his pocket in a vacant, confused way.

John watched him go, glad to have seen him, glad he had survived the worst of the winter, and then set off again. He had only gone a few steps when he stopped. Something was bugging him. Something had been wrong about that encounter. He rummaged hard inside his own head, suddenly desperate to know what was wrong. It took him an embarrassingly long time. His darling would have been appalled at how atrophied his brain had become. And then, of course, it was staring him in the face, and he could not believe he had not seen it at the first.

There was no way the man could have known he was a doctor.

John whipped around, scanning the line of trees, and then took to his heels after him. But the figure had gone, lost in the immensity of the park. John ran helter-skelter for a while, but he knew it was hopeless, and he ended up breathless and aching and confused. Then he realised his mistake, and went through his pockets for his wallet.

Sure enough, it was gone.

In its place was a small fold of paper. John undid it with trembling fingers. Printed on the inside in regular, anonymous, handwritten letters, were the words:

'MILLENIUM BRIDGE 10PM TONIGHT'

His heart was thudding.

Moriarty. It _must_ be him. Somehow.

Well, fair enough. If it was time to die, then he had never been more ready. He would take that little Irish bastard with him. He went straight home and cleaned his gun.

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><p><em>Tomorrow, a meeting under the bridge…<em>


	2. Chapter 2

Resurrection Ch 2

**Warning:** Some creative swearing. Soldiers have mouths like sewers when they get going.

**A/N:** Enormous thanks to everyone who has favourited this story, I hope you enjoy.

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><p>St Paul's basked in the livid glow of the city night. On the other side of the river, the dark bulk of Tate Modern loomed. John felt calm as he stepped onto the sparkling bridge, calmer than he had in a very long time. He heart rate was steady, his pulse regular, for the first time in months. He felt at peace with himself and with the world he was now glad to leave. He did not wonder how it would be to die. (He'd already come pretty close to it in Kandahar, after all.) He just knew that it would be satisfying for this misery to end. And if he could do one last good deed for the world as he left it, so much the better. As he strode out, he was the nearest thing to happy that he had been since he boarded the plane to Geneva.<p>

Up the river, Big Ben chimed out the hour. The water was choppy. A couple of river boats were splashing past. There was a sharp wind coming up from Vauxhall, channelled by the tall buildings along the Embankment. The air was crystalline with frost.

A figure was leaning on the railings in the centre of the bridge, but he could see as he approached that it was not the homeless man so familiar to him. The glitter of the city night lit up the face as he neared, and his breath caught in his throat. She was smiling at him. It was one of the Baker Street Irregulars, the team of street dwellers that had fed them crucial information for cases that had eluded them any other way.

'Long time, no see, doc,' she said, lolling on the steel support.

His legs refused to go any further. Something was moving under his ribs, but he stuffed it down. No! He couldn't! He would not admit that feeling back into his life. It was dead and gone. This was a world devoid of Hope. Moriarty had killed it, stabbed it and flung it over that waterfall last summer. He lurched, grabbed at the rails and desperately struggled to calm himself. He pulled the gun from its hiding place, nestled in the small of his back against his skin, and pointed it at her. That wiped the smile off her face.

'What is this?' he demanded.

'Okay, okay, don't get your minerals in a tizz, love!' she whined, waiving her hands in the air.

'Talk!' He was shouting now, not afraid, but definitely panicky.

'Alright, alright! Down the end there –' she nodded towards the south bank, to the shadow of the vast gallery. 'Under the bridge. Someone wants to see you.'

John was running before he even knew what he was doing, the handle of the pistol cool against his palm, the blood rushing in his ears. Running for all he was worth, pounding down the few hundred yards of shaky bridge, and skidding around the switchback of the ramp, and down onto the riverside path.

There were little spotlights hiding in the darkness, pinpoints of brilliance in the gloom. He peered in under the arch. A figure was standing there, close to the bridge supports, very still. Not the little, runty figure he was expecting, had been hoping for, perhaps. He saw the glint of blue eyes under the lights, and the world lurched and slanted.

'John?'

Such a familiar voice.

'No,' he cried. 'No!'

The figure stepped forward. No shambling gait now. Straight-backed and head held high, even if it was a horribly hairy head. Still, John would have known that stance anywhere.

The howl that came out of his mouth felt as if it came from somewhere else, from a deep dark feral place in some distant millennia. He staggered forward and then they were together, gripping each other, clinging to each other, and nothing else mattered because it was Sherlock, Sherlock in his arms, alive and warm and living and real, Sherlock pressing his lips to his cheeks and mouth and holding him, stink and all, and nothing, nothing in the world mattered anymore but this.

And then John pushed him away.

'You bastard!' he sobbed. 'You total fucking cunt!'

'I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry!'

'Sorry? You bastard! Don't you realise what you've done?'

'I hurt you.' Hearing Sherlock's voice was agony and bliss at the same time.

'Hurt me?' John shouted. 'Hurt me? You fucking destroyed me, Sherlock! How could you do that? How could you?'

They were both sobbing and shouting, and nothing and everything made sense.

'Please, John? Please? I'm so sorry.'

'Sorry doesn't even begin to cover it, you bastard!'

The punch caught Sherlock squarely in the centre of his face and he went down on his bum without having a chance to register what had happened until after it was over. He spat blood onto the flags.

'I deserved that,' he said.

'Oh, that's just the start, sunshine,' John snarled, and dragged him onto his feet again. But then he couldn't go through with it, couldn't beat ten bells of shit out of his beloved even if he tried. He pulled Sherlock against him instead, and sobbed into his disgusting coat, and let Sherlock hold him through the storm because he wanted nothing and no one else forever. But eventually the anguish subsided, and he lifted his head and gazed up into those beautiful eyes that he had thought he would never see again.

'Just tell me why,' he whispered.

'He was going to kill you, John,' Sherlock told him, his voice riven with pain. 'I knew if I was dead, then he wouldn't care about you anymore, he would stop trying to hurt you. I wanted to you to be safe. I just-' He was struggling to find the words. 'I just wanted to keep you safe,' he finally managed, grimacing at the lameness of it.

John pushed him away

'You did it for me?'

'Yes.'

'Don't make this about me, you bastard, this isn't about me, it's about you and him. It was always you and him. So you can finally beat him. That's it, isn't it?'

'I thought if he thought I was dead, I'd have time to track him, take him by surprise.'

'He's still out there, though, isn't he? Isn't he? What difference has all this made, eh? Nothing. Not a damn fucking thing. Except destroying my life, demolishing my heart. Doesn't that count for anything? You could have told me, Sherlock. You could have said.'

'No, he had to believe. And the only way he was going to believe it was if you did. I knew he'd watch you. And you're just not a good enough actor.'

John stared at him in disbelief. 'You complete cunt.'

'You can hit me again if you like.'

'You're not worth it.' John tucked the pistol back in his waistband.

'I knew it was stupid the minute it was done. I knew I needed you even then. I knew I loved you. But it was too late. I am so, so sorry, John.'

'All this time, Sherlock? You waited all this time? You were standing outside the fucking flat! You could have just walked in and told me. But you had to wait until I was completely insane. What the fuck is wrong with you?'

'I'm an idiot.'

'Yes. You are an idiot! A fucking cunt bastard idiot!'

'Impressive swearing.'

'Don't take the piss out of me right now, Sherlock, I might just shoot you!'

They stared at each other. And then fell together again.

'You didn't even tell Mycroft?'

'You had to believe it was true. All of you.'

'He is going to be _so_ pissed at you,' John said, his face pressed to Sherlock's smelly neck. Sherlock stroked his hair, and held him, and murmured into his ear wordless tender noises.

'I missed you so much,' he breathed eventually.

John said nothing, did nothing, just allowed himself to be held. And after a very long time, he realised Sherlock was weeping. He lifted his face, and looked into swimming eyes.

'Please John,' the detective whimpered. 'May I come home?'

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><p><em>Tomorrow: So what has Sherlock been up to all these months….?<em>


	3. Chapter 3

Resurrection Ch 3

**A/N**: More respectful thanks to Foul Ole Ron. Enjoy this happy interlude while you can, because sooner or later the demons are going to come out to play. You know it.

Please review, I love reviews, I NEED reviews!

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><p>The flat had taken on the damp chill of abandonment in recent months, but John could feel it come alive again as soon as Sherlock stalked through the door. He stood in the middle of the sitting room floor and looked around him, bewildered.<p>

'You haven't changed a thing,' he gasped. 'You haven't even moved my skull.'

'Don't flatter yourself. I still hate that skull.' His heart was doing back flips under his ribs though. It was total joy to have Sherlock back, even if he was filthy.

Sherlock turned to him. 'Got anything to eat?'

'With all due respect, it's a confined space, so if you're staying, you'd better have a bath before you do anything else.'

The former detective gurned. 'Don't you like my smell? I think it has character.'

'You are disgusting. Bath. Now.'

'Food?' Sherlock crooned.

'Bath first. Then food.' John shoved him as far as the bathroom and went to shut the door after him, but a long, skinny hand shot out and grabbed the handle.

'John?'

'Bath. Now.'

'Yes, but- ' Sherlock gave him a sheepish look. 'I know this sounds silly, but will you – ' he was really struggling to get this out. 'Will you help me?'

'With what?'

'Okay, look, a doctor would be useful right now, but –'

'What is it? What's wrong?' John was suddenly gripped with renewed fear. He had seen Moriarty's knife sink into that long body, after all. And Sherlock was definitely avoiding his eyes.

'It's just that, well-'

'Spit it out!'

'I'm scared that if you go out of the room, I might wake up and find I've dreamed this, and I'm still on the street.'

It was pitiful. It was pitiful, and so, so beautiful.

'I'll scrub your back.'

John turned up the thermostat and put two clean towels on the quickly warming radiator. Then he helped peel the disgusting clothes off the skinny body. If anything, Sherlock was even more emaciated than he had been, something John would have thought impossible. And he was covered in sores and flea bites.

'The lice are the worst,' Sherlock told him, conversationally. 'They get in your pubes and it's almost impossible to get rid of them.'

'You have pubic lice?'

'Not any more. The doctor at Shelter gave me some spray.'

'Oh, good.' John threw the stained jogging pants into the far corner as if he was handling radioactive waste. Sherlock tried to pull his tee-shirt over his head and hissed, pulling back.

'What is it?'

'My side,' he grimaced.

'Let me see.' John rolled up the top and looked. Just above Sherlock's right hip, the skin was livid and swollen around a ragged scar, old but still clearly infected.

'Dear God, what is this?'

'Moriarty.'

'You've had this since last summer?' He couldn't keep the horror from his voice. 'It's a wonder you're still alive!'

'I did my best with it.' Sherlock groaned as John pressed his fingers around the damage, trying to assess the problem. 'I stole antibiotics whenever I could, but I couldn't risk a hospital, it was too dangerous.'

'Haven't you ever heard of septicaemia?'

Sherlock hissed again, recoiling from John's fingers. 'Careful!'

'Well, I've got some Acyclovir I can give you to make a start, but you really need something heavy duty to knock that out.' He went to retrieve the pills and a glass of water, returning to find Sherlock naked and sitting in the still-filling bath with a blissful expression on his face.

'Good?' John handed him the medicine, trying not to look.

'You have no idea.'

Feeling confused at the messages his body was sending him in response to the lean shape stretching out under the shallow ripples, John scanned the legs and feet and-

'Good grief, what happened to your feet?'

They had always been bony, ugly feet, but now they were a mess. Most of the toenails were missing, and those that remained were black. The skin was either badly calloused, or blistered and raw.

Sherlock sighed. 'You'd be amazed how quickly your shoes wear out when you walk across a continent.'

'What?'

'How else was I going to get home?'

'You walked?'

'Yes.'

'From Switzerland?'

'Yes.' Sherlock knocked back the tablets and slurped at the water, then rested the glass on his ribs for all the world like it was a champagne flute.

'Shoes are hard to steal. Especially if you have big feet.'

John sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall so that he was facing Sherlock.

'I don't believe this is happening,' he said.

Sherlock gave him a blissful smile.

'You really walked all that way?'

'Except for the Channel, obviously. I can do resurrection, but walking on water is beyond even me. I blagged a birth with a couple of chaps on a yacht. Came in at Brighton Marina and walked the rest of the way.'

'Unbelievable. You just said "blagged".'

'Couldn't afford public transport, couldn't risk hitch-hiking.' Sherlock continued, ignoring the comment. He put the glass on the side of the bath, turned off the tap with his toe and sank down under the surface. The hideous mane billowed out. And then he surfaced again, wiping the water from his eyes, and reached for John's shampoo.

'No. Let me.' The doctor sprang up and pulled Sherlock's old shampoo from the bathroom cabinet.

'You kept it,' he said, gazing up into John's eyes in wonder as he took it.

'I want you to smell like you again,' John told him, trying to blank from his mind all the times he had flipped up the lid just to smell the scent of the man he'd loved and lost. Sherlock handed the bottle back.

'You do it,' he said. 'Wash my hair, John. Make me myself again.'

John knelt and leant over the edge of the bath. He filled his hand with the sticky liquid and started to massage it into the smelly mop, dragging his fingers over Sherlock's cranium, so that he groaned with pleasure. John took a long, deep breath, and it smelt so good. Tears began to come again. He brushed them off with the back of his hand, hoping Sherlock wouldn't see, but he caught hold of John's hand and pressed it to his lips softly.

'Careful,' John told him, tugging it away. 'Don't get it in your eyes.'

'Better do the beard as well. It's pretty thick.'

'I can't believe you managed this much growth. I never thought you were that hairy.' John was struggling to make conversation to cover his own distress. He soaped his hands up again and began to rub the bushy red beard. With the weight of the water stretching it out, it reached almost to Sherlock's breastbone. Beyond all reasonable expectation, he found himself giggling through his tears.

'It's ridiculous!'

Sherlock giggled too. 'I know! And it drives me mad, itches like hell.'

'You're definitely not the beardy type.'

'Covers up my weak jaw, though, don't you think?'

John flicked water at him, now in fits of laughter. 'Vain bastard!'

Sherlock squealed, grabbed John's arm, and managed to pitch him over into the water and into his lap. Suddenly there was water everywhere, and they were in hysterics, squirming together in the tub like kids. John was covered with foam, and Sherlock ducked under, so that the suds floated up off his crown, then blew a spout of water at John as he came up. And then, somehow, John was lying in his arms, fully clothed and fully immersed, and it was perfect. He rested his head back on Sherlock's shoulder and sighed.

'You smell so good.'

Sherlock stroked his temple.

'Promise you won't leave me again?' John whispered.

'Absolutely never.'

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><p>Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, where John had spent every night for the first six months after his 'death' contemplating suicide, and devoured four rounds of cheese on toast with extra Tabasco, and two bags of prawn cocktail flavoured crisps. It was food he would never have eaten before, the kind of food he would have turned his nose up at in disgust, but life on the road had changed him and he was grateful for every bite. He clearly had a lot of catching up to do, too.<p>

John clasped a mug of tea between his palms, gazing at the man sitting in front of him gorging, a crumb-strewn plate where once he had laid his gun. He had known utter and complete despair at this table, and now he was experiencing a kind of ecstasy. The irony was not lost on him.

They finished a packet of chocolate chip cookies between them, crunching happily and slurping their tea.

'Come on, you,' John sighed eventually, reluctant to face the end of a perfect moment, but always the practical one. He looked at the clock on the stove. It said 0123am. 'We should get some sleep. I have a feeling its going to be a very tough day tomorrow.'

Sherlock looked sad. 'Can I come in with you?'

'If you like.'

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><p>With the heating finally turned up, John's bedroom felt warm and snug. He lay on his right side, his good side, and Sherlock snuggled against him, spooning.<p>

'If I close my eyes, you won't disappear, will you?' he whispered. Sherlock's arm tightened around his waist.

'Nope.' The word brushed the nape of his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

After a while, he couldn't help himself. 'I dreamt of this so often, and then in the morning, you were always gone.'

'I'll never leave you again.' Lips pressed softly against his skin, wiry beard hairs tickling.

John smiled. 'You really need to get rid of that beard.'

Sherlock mumbled something, his face buried in the back of John's tee-shirt, but it was lost. He was already asleep.

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><p><em>Tomorrow: How to deal with Mycroft?<em>


	4. Chapter 4

Resurrection Ch 4

**A/N**: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially **microbialme** who picked up on my complete ignorance of matters medical. Yes, I should have put erythromycin in Watson's medical bag, I stand corrected. Please forgive any further goofs on my part. Also thanks to everyone who as reviewed, you are my life's blood. Especial thanks to **Mirith Griffin** and **Giraffes Sent Me** - happy little Snoopy dance to you both xxx More reviews please, you make want to keep writing...

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><p>John woke up, warm and happy, to the bleep of his alarm clock. It was a familiar sensation, the feeling of waking up, free as a bird, and then remembering the truth, and the pain hitting him square in the sternum. But not today. Today there was a long, skinny arm snaked around his waist, and a familiar soapy smell in the bed. He flapped his arm about for the alarm, but when he pressed the button, it didn't stop.<p>

The phone was ringing.

He crawled from under the duvet and staggered about, looking for his mobile. It was Mycroft. Sherlock blinked at him lazily as he pressed the 'Answer' button.

'Yeah?'

'John, I'm sending a car for you. Something has come up. I need you to move fast.' His voice sounded urgent, even slightly worried.

'Mycroft, you know I don't do that stuff any more.'

'This is important.'

John sighed. Sherlock sat up, gave him that penetrating stare. 'Okay, look, something really important is starting here. I think you'd better come.'

'I really am rather busy-'

'I think this will help. Just trust me, Mycroft.'

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. 'Is this about that homeless man you picked up last night,' he asked eventually.

'I thought you'd stopped having me watched.'

'Matters have taken an unfortunate new turn. It has become necessary.'

'Just come.'

A sigh. 'Fifteen minutes.' The line went dead.

'Big brother?' Sherlock asked, cocking his head on one side.

John nodded. 'He'll be here in fifteen minutes. We'd better get dressed. You'll find plenty of clean clothes still in the drawers.'

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><p>John let Mycroft in ten minutes later. He was struck immediately by how drawn and tired the older man looked these days. Losing Sherlock had taken it out of him, too. He wondered how he was going to react when he got upstairs and saw the surprise waiting for him. He showed Mycroft up to the living room, and closed the door discreetly, glad that Mrs Hudson was away visiting her sister. If she'd been at home, it would have been all over London in minutes.<p>

'What's going on,' Mycroft demanded.

John pointed to the kitchen. Mycroft followed his arm with his eyes, and registered the figure standing beside the table. With his own clothes on again, his ragged hair tied back at the nape of his neck, and despite the beard, there was no mistaking Sherlock.

Even on the battlefield, John had never heard a sound as terrible as the one that came out of Mycroft's mouth then, a horrifying keening that even the agonised wounded couldn't make. He staggered and fell sideways against the arm of the sofa, and Sherlock was in like a shot, holding him.

'What's wrong with him? Is he having a heart attack?'

They struggled with the howling, writhing sibling until John's hand came in contact with his chest. The heartbeat was fast but strong and steady, and the pulse in his neck regular, though racing.

'No, I don't think so.'

Mycroft grasped Sherlock's clothes and hung on, his face contorting in terrible pain.

'Mycroft,' Sherlock said, pulling his brother's body tight against him. 'It's okay, big brother, its okay. It's over. I'm here. I'm back.'

The cries were transforming into sobs, wracking the barrel chest under its tight camouflage of pinstripes. He pressed his face to Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock stroked his hair, tears on his own face too.

It was too much for John. Feeling like his heart was being ripped out all over again, he retreated up the stairs. They needed to work through this alone. He closed the door of his room and lay back on the bed. Presently he heard raised voices, and smiled to himself. That was more like it. He put in his earphones and switched on his ipod to wait it out.

He had listened to a U2 album, a Smiths album, and was well into Aiden Moffat and the Best Ofs when Sherlock appeared in the doorway. He looked truly dreadful, his face blotched, his eyes red and puffy. The fat lip that John had given him on the Embankment was really starting to show up now, and there was another mark, a red welt across his cheek that suggested the firm slap of a brotherly palm.

'He really _was_ pissed, wasn't he? John said, giving him a hug.

'Not as bad as I'd expected actually,' Sherlock muttered. 'But don't tell him that. Anyway, you'd better come down. The game is apparently afoot.'

* * *

><p>Mycroft's habitual urbanity was somewhat marred by his red eyes and flushed cheeks, but he sat as elegantly as ever, legs crossed, in Sherlock's favourite armchair. Reasserting power and reclaiming control, John realised. Sherlock pulled John down onto the sofa, wrapping a jealous arm around his shoulders. He snuggled in, rather liking this new, possessive quality.<p>

'You didn't throttle him then?' he quipped.

'I'm saving that joy for another day. Can we get on? Matters are moving rather fast, and as usual, my little brother's timing is impeccable.'

'Okay, fill me in.'

'You know that we have been making substantial headway with the Moriarty organisation in the last eight months.' He pointedly left out the reason for that particular timescale, but glared at Sherlock nevertheless. 'My people have tracked his main centre of operations to a former IRA nest in western Ireland, and we are preparing to raid it in the next few days. However, there is a complication. It seems that since my brother's-' he searched for the right word, now unable to avoid it. 'Disappearance, ahem, Moriarty has turned his affectionate attentions to me. He didn't know I existed before the memorial service, but now he seems to think I am a far more worthy adversary than _you_ ever were, Sherlock.'

'I appreciate the dig,' Sherlock said, coolly. 'What makes you think this?'

Mycroft turned his face away, as if to steady his emotions. 'There have already been attacks on my intimates.'

This came as a bombshell. Mycroft had intimates?

Mycroft glanced back at them, took in their expressions, and huffed. 'I'm not a bloody monk, you know!'

'You could have fooled me,' John couldn't help pointing out. He'd had no idea. In all their time together since losing Sherlock, Mycroft had never hinted at anything more than their shared grief, and his sympathy for John's loss. Maybe he had lost more than a brother. Maybe he had reason to be seriously angry.

'I'm sorry, Mycroft,' he blurted. 'I had no idea.'

'No. Well, I take care that no one does. But thank you anyway.' He sighed. His face had closed again. 'It seems that since you and I have become close, you are back in his firing line, and the information suggests that he preparing to move against you in the next few days. I will not countenance any further losses, especially given these new developments –' another glance at Sherlock – 'I need to move you both to a safe house as quickly as possible.'

John knew Mycroft would not take action so extreme if he were not absolutely sure of his sources. His stomach did a little flip, but he went with it, allowing the familiar calm of impending risk to fill him. Sherlock squeezed his shoulders.

'Where is this place?' he asked.

'Not relevant. All you need to know is that it is geographically remote enough to be virtually impregnable.' Mycroft paused, and a small smile crept over his lips. 'Actually, I think you will like it. I take holidays there sometimes. Very restful. And rather romantic.'

'You take holidays?' Sherlock said, aghast.

John thought the idea that Mycroft would know romance when he saw it was far more shocking.

'As I said, I'm not a monk.'

'I'd rather go somewhere urban,' Sherlock said, rather petulantly.

'I think your right to an opinion on the subject is rather null and void at this point, don't you? Anyway, I am trying to save John's life, not yours.'

Mycroft checked his watch. 'John, you'd better go and pack a bag, whatever medicines you need, and such like. I've had clothes delivered for both of you, so there's no need for those. I can give you five minutes.'

* * *

><p>The business of escape was a complicated series of sleights of hand. An ambulance arrived and Sherlock was strapped into the stretcher, playing the part of a seriously sick homeless man again, the shambling figure whom John had been seen to befriend in the street. Mycroft slid off in his limousine, and John climbed into the ambulance and watched the paramedic go through the motions, acting as if she was doing her job when really she was just miming.<p>

'This is weird, don't you think?' he asked her.

'Sorry, I'm not allowed to talk to you,' she said. He could only imagine what pressure Mycroft's team had put on her to persuade her of that.

At the A&E unit of St Thomas's Hospital, Sherlock was wheeled into a private room where a man in a white coat who may or may not have been a doctor pronounced him dead on arrival and pulled a sheet over his face. John really had to struggle to control himself at that point.

Porters in grey coats came and transported the 'body' discreetly via a back elevator to the mortuary, allowing John to accompany them. Inside another closed room, John undid the straps anchoring Sherlock to the gurney, and they slipped out of a fire exit and up a flight of steps to where a Range Rover with blacked-out windows was waiting at the top, and bundled inside. The huge car slid out quietly into the stream of traffic and they were away, Mycroft in the front with the driver, going through paperwork, John and Sherlock holding hands on the back seat.

'You had a memorial service for me?' Sherlock whispered.

John shrugged.

'How many people came?'

'Just me, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and a stray dog.' John had no intention of pandering to Sherlock's vanity at this point in proceedings. He was still unsettled by the sheet, and there were a lot of issues left to clear up between them, after all.

'Liar.' Sherlock squeezed his hand.

John stared at a couple in the back of a taxi next to them in the queue at some traffic lights. They were staring lovingly into each other's eyes and giggling. John felt a tender pain in his throat.

'No one can see us in here, can they?' he asked.

'The windows are one way and armoured,' Mycroft said, not looking up. 'You might as well be in a tank.'

'Good,' he said, and reached over to kiss a surprised Sherlock on the mouth. It felt ridiculously good. 'As soon as we get back,' he whispered, 'we're taking a ride in a taxi.'

Sherlock nodded, his eyes shining.

* * *

><p><strong>Credit<strong>: I recommend you to the album 'How to get to Heaven from Scotland' by Aiden Moffat and the Best Ofs, (Chemikal Underground 2009), which has some of the most romantic lyrics I've ever heard. I figure John would be a real softie and that would be reflected in his musical tastes, though he's about the right age to like The Smiths.

_Tomorrow: whisked away to the edge of the world…_


	5. Chapter 5

Resurrection Ch 5

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and commented. Please let me have your feedback, it's the only way I learn.

Dear **Mirith,** I am grateful for your advice about which Smiths album John is listening to. Personally they are the only band that I hate so much that I throw things. (I realise that is heresy from someone my age.). On your suggestion, 'The Queen is Dead' is definitely the album.

* * *

><p>The Range Rover pulled off the M40 just the other side of the M25 and negotiated a few back roads before turning onto a small private airfield. It bumped over the turf towards where a Sea King helicopter in military livery was squatting, its vast rotor blades swooping lazily. Sherlock and John followed Mycroft from the car, ducking in the downdraft, and scrambled inside. A crewman in a grey jumpsuit and helmet hauled the door shut and the chopper lurched into the air. They strapped themselves into the seats, John and Sherlock side by side, Mycroft opposite, sitting with his back to the cockpit, while the crewman handed them headsets, comically large earphones with mouth mikes attached. John adjusted his and then turned to Sherlock, who was grinning like a kid with a new toy.<p>

A voice crackled in their ears, sounding uncomfortably close and silkily deep.

'Good morning gentlemen, welcome aboard. The weather ahead is looking good and there should be a stiff tail wind to improve our flight time, so we are expecting one hour forty to our destination. Enjoy your flight!'

There was another crackle.

The crewman lurched back from the cockpit, hanging on to the rails in the roof, and lugging an enormous cool box. He heaved it down in between the seats in front of them and cracked open the top.

'In flight catering, lads,' his voice hissed in John's earphones. 'Enjoy!' And he shuffled back to his seat beside the navigator.

There were Marks and Spencers' sandwiches, crisps, drinks and, at the bottom, tasty cakes in little wrappers, and chocolate. Sherlock, having not had breakfast, fell on them like a plague of locusts. John watched him devour two packs of BLT and one of Prawn Mayo, a large packet of tortilla chips and a yogurt drink, before he discovered the cakes. Mycroft picked primly at crayfish and rocket on rye bread and a bottle of sparkling spring water. John stuck to tuna and sweetcorn, his favourite.

Half way through the flight, leaning over Sherlock's legs to see out of the window, John got chocolate dropped down the back of his neck.

* * *

><p>The chopper skimmed over the ocean, followed the strand of rocky coast and touched down on a desolate patch of flat grass in a thin drizzle. Hunched over, they scurried from the rotor blades, and took refuge in a little tin shack, where a mountainous blonde man was waiting, his face flushed. Mycroft shook hands with him, slapping his upper arm companionably. John had never seen him give anybody such a friendly greeting.<p>

'Boys, this is Rory,' the elder Holmes shouted over the roar of the Sea King's motors. 'He'll take you from here. Remember, four days, max, and I'll be back to pick you up. In the meantime, keep your heads down and do what Rory tells you.'

John pulled Mycroft aside and pressed his mouth to his ear. 'Are you sure he's safe?'

'He's my best man,' Mycroft barked back into John's ear. 'The only one I trust. But just to be on the safe side –' He nodded to Rory, who stepped forward and pressed a pistol in a heavy leather holster and several clips of ammunition into John's hands. It was an impressive piece, not the usual army issue. John weighed it in his hand. This thing could blast through pretty much anything. He checked the chamber and the internal clip. All present and correct. It made him feel better.

They watched Mycroft climb back into the chopper. It took off, banking away steeply. And then they were alone in the sea fret with the big man.

* * *

><p>Rory took John's bag and threw it into the back of a beaten up old Defender. They all climbed into the front, wedged together amongst the clumps of dried mud, empty crisp packets and old cassettes. Rory tweaked the keys with his meaty hand and the engine roared into life. He chatted away in his thick Hebridean accent, paying little attention to the single track road as they bounced along. After about half an hour, they emerged from a forested hillside and wound down to an inlet where a burn bubbled out into the sea like black coffee. A scrofulous looking bungalow crouched amongst the rhododendron bushes. Rory pulled up.<p>

'Is this it?' Sherlock asked him, making his sceptical face.

'Oh no, this is where Iona lives. My sister. Mycroft said you wanted a hair cut.'

A plump woman with a ruddy face and strawberry blonde hair tied back in a ponytail came to the door and welcomed them into her warm kitchen. She dolled out mugs of scalding tea and then examined Sherlock with the eye of a professional.

'Oh dear,' she grumbled, shaking her head. 'That'll be like shearing a sheep. How short do you want it?'

Sherlock tried to explain but she tutted her disapproval and took out her barbers kit. John attempted to peer around her, but she always seemed to be standing in his line of sight. Great hanks of hair flopped onto the lino. She cut a line straight across the length of Sherlock's hair, taking it up to his collar, and then began to work in the layers, dragging the hanks back, lining up, snipping, then doing it again, so that Sherlock's head bobbed back and forwards. She trimmed back his beard as tight to his skin as possible, lathered him up, and then took out a sparkling cut-throat blade and began to chafe it on a strop.

'My Granda' taught me to use a proper razor,' she said, drawing the blade back and forth. 'It gives a much better finish, much smoother than your safety razor.'

John's stomach tightened as she tilted back Sherlock's chin. The scraping noise of the sharp edge on stubble filled the kitchen like fingernails on a blackboard.

When she had finished, she stood back and admired her work. Then she stepped away from the chair.

It was Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock. Neat and smart and smoothly shaven, soft curls hanging round his long face. She showed him the mirror.

'Bravo!' Sherlock said, clapping his palms together.

John had to look away, out of the window and across the barren landscape to where mountains rose out of the peat bogs.

* * *

><p>They bumped along the last few miles from Iona's place, down a muddy track, and found two cottages huddled on the fringe of the sea, lights blinking in the growing twilight. Rory showed them into the larger of the two.<p>

'You two are in there,' he said pointing to a door at the far end of the living quarters. 'In the en suite. And I'm in here.' His bedroom was by the front door, for security purposes. In between there was a welcoming open plan living area, kitchen, dining table, and sofas clustered around a lit wood burning stove. The house was full of a delicious smell.

Sherlock sniffed like a dog scenting prey. 'Mmm, what's that?'

'Venison in red wine,' Rory said. 'Specialité de Maison.'

The wind was getting up. The fire crackled and smoked. They sat around the table, wolfing down casserole and thick, creamy mash. John and Sherlock drank red wine. Rory had water.

'You're an impressive cook,' Sherlock told him, ploughing through his second helping.

'One of my many talents,' he grinned, and started clearing up the plates.

'Medicine time!' John got up from the table, and pulled out his kit roll. Mycroft had left him a box of vials ready on the bedside table.

'What's this?'

'Intravenous antibiotics.'

'But you gave me the erythromycin*.'

'And did I see you take it this morning? I think not.' John yanked Sherlock's sleeve up and attached the strap to his arm above the elbow, twisting his wrist so that he could tap the delicate skin in the crook to find a vein.

'Butcher,' Sherlock muttered, watching him fill and flick the syringe.

'Bastard,' he replied. He ran his fingers over the flesh, feeling for the pulse closest to the surface, while Rory clattered china into the dishwasher. Sherlock's skin was very soft and smooth, with a delicate sheen. John suddenly felt himself flush. He had done this procedure on patients a million times before, but suddenly it seemed a deeply intimate place to touch another man. He could smell Sherlock's body this close, the familiar cinnamon scent that had made him so happy the previous night.

He turned away to prepare the antiseptic swab, hoping that Sherlock hadn't seen his hand shaking. But he couldn't put it off, the deed had to be done. He flicked the skin with his fingernails.

'Ow!'

'Shut up or I'll put it in your bum! You will feel a small prick.'

'Oh, har har!'

He pushed the needle in, and eased back the plunger to mingle blood with the serum.

'I may faint.'

'Shut up, I said - wimp.' He depressed the plunger, pulled the needle out, pressed on the swab and folded Sherlock's arm up to keep it tight, slipping off the tourniquet. 'There. All done.'

'How often do I have to submit to that?' Sherlock sulked.

'Twice a day. For a week. And no more wine.'

'Bloody hell, that's barbaric!'

'You want to get better? Tough!' John packed his things back into the black felt roll and dropped the needle into the sharps bin so thoughtfully left by the sink.

They sat for a while in front of the TV until the signal started to deteriorate with the increasing wind.

'Bad night tonight, lads,' Rory predicted. 'Big storm coming on off the Atlantic.'

'That won't compromise our security, will it? I mean, power cuts and that kind of thing?' John asked him.

He shook his head. 'It'll stop the ferries. No flights. Makes things better, in fact. The satellite uplink net on this place is run from multiple generators. Even if one hub was cut, they couldn't take the whole place out. London would know in seconds if we were under attack, and warn us.'

Rain started to drive against the windows.

They played Cluedo. It was a mistake. Sherlock proved insufferable, winning every round. John suggested cards. Rory liked poker. Sherlock learnt very quickly. He had won everyone's matchsticks by the third hand.

'Fuck this!' Rory growled. 'Mycroft warned me about you. I'm going to bed.'

'Good idea,' John agreed, plucking the cards out of Sherlock's hands, and glaring at him. 'Think we'll do likewise.'

* * *

><p>The walls of the cottage were three feet thick. Even so, the wind battered the building throughout the night, making the joists creak, rattling the sashes, and riffling the roof tiles. Hale lashed the window panes like handfuls of gravel. John snuggled down under the duvet, listening to Sherlock's contented snores and the roar of the storm. He felt as if he was teetering on the edge of the world. There was more than one storm coming.<p>

* * *

><p>*Acyclovir changed to erythromycin on the advice of reviewer <strong>microbialme, <strong>with thanks.

NB: Let it be noted that ALL old Landrover Defenders have dashboard bins and footwells full of clumps of dried mud, empty crisp packets and old cassettes. There is usually also a torch with dead batteries, an empty paper coffee cup and some string too. Its one of the inherent laws of the universe.

Deepest thanks to the inhabitants of the islands of Islay and Jura, where I spent an exceedingly happy week last year during the Islay Whisky Festival, and was made very welcome, despite winds gusting to 129mph and the fact that I'm allergic to alcohol!. It's a fantastic place, and I urge you to go there…

_Tomorrow: Buried emotions erupt with violent consequences…_


	6. Chapter 6

Resurrection Ch 6

**A/N:** Thank you again to everyone who has commented. I would especially like to hear your opinion on the next bit. I have a few reservations about it myself, and I nearly rewrote it, but then I thought, how do you really learn what is wrong if you don't get it out there and ask people. So please, let me know...

**Warning:** Violent gay sex.

* * *

><p>He woke early, coming to in a haze. The wind was still howling around the eaves. He plodded out in search of tea, and found Rory suiting up to go outside. He was packing a semi automatic as well as waterproofs.<p>

'Off out?'

'Going to check the perimeter.' Rory slid back the cover on his pistol to check there was a cartridge in the chamber. 'Back in half an hour.'

A gust of wind came in as he left.

John made a mug of tea and sat at the table, watching the rain sluice down the window. He let his mind go, running over the last two days, two extraordinary days. His life had changed. He had changed. He could feel a strange pressure building in his chest and he could only think of one way to release it. When he had finished the tea, he got up in a haze, took a vial out of the fridge, and went back to the bedroom.

Sherlock was awake, lying on his side reading a book he had found.

'This is just terrible!' he complained, flopping the cover of the paperback over to look at it. It was a cheap airport thriller with a gunsight motif picked out in back on silver flames on the front. 'The worst kind of dross. I hope it isn't Mycroft's because if it is, I seriously worry for the future of this country.

'Get up.'

'What?'

'I said, get up.' John was shocked at the tone of his own voice, and even more shocked that Sherlock responded to it, climbing out from under the duvet and throwing the book aside. John unwrapped a syringe and filled it from the little glass bottle, then set it down on the bedside table. He could feel his cheeks burning, but he couldn't have stopped, even if he'd tried.

'Turn around and bend over.'

'What's wrong with you this-' Sherlock didn't finish his question because John grabbed him , whirled him around and forced his head down onto the bed.

'What the fuck-!'

'Shut up!' He barked and tugged Sherlock's pyjama pants down brutally.

Sherlock's bottom was rounded and muscular, covered with a soft golden down. John's mouth watered, just looking at it. He wanted to sink his teeth into the taut flesh. Instead, he picked up the syringe and stabbed it in, viciously.

Sherlock cried out.

He depressed the plunger, forcing the liquid into the muscle, and tugged the needle out again.

Sherlock was shaking.

John dropped the syringe, and it clattered on the bedside table. Wind battered against the side of the house. He reached out and slid his hand over the globe of skin, then dug his nails in, dragging them down.

Breath caught in Sherlock's throat.

The flesh resisted his fingertips to perfection. He lifted his hand and brought it smartly down. The smack resounded around the room. When he drew his hand away, he saw the red mark. He did it again, and Sherlock gasped, pressed his face into the duvet to stifle a moan.

John grasped the back of Sherlock's pyjama pants and tugged, but they wouldn't budge and then he realised why. The elastic was caught around Sherlock's cock, and it was hard. He pulled again. Sherlock groaned. He still hadn't pulled hard enough. Again, with a flick of the wrist, and this time they came down, and pooled around his ankles. Now John could see the long legs, strong thigh muscles, shapely calves.

'Kick them way,' he commanded and Sherlock did.

He put his hand between the long legs and spread them, pushed Sherlock's tee-shirt up to his armpits. Sherlock was leaning on his forearms now, the muscles in his back and buttocks taut in anticipation. John let his hand follow the line of his hip, down the long thigh, grazing the flesh, to the tender, sensitive skin at the back of the knee. And stroked.

Sherlock shivered.

Then he worked his way up the inner thigh, tracing little circles so that the flesh goosed. At the cleft at the top, he could just glimpse the back of the scrotal sack, and he allowed himself to touch, very lightly.

Sherlock moaned, leaning back a little in the hope of increasing the pressure.

'No!' John snapped at him, and brought his hand smartly down again on his already glowing backside. The muscle quivered.

He dragged Sherlock's top over his head. 'On the bed.'

Sherlock scrambled forward.

'On your back.'

He obeyed, stretching out.

It was all John could do not to moan himself at the sight. The long body supine before him, utterly at his mercy, the penis engorged, belly muscles fluttering with excitement.

The tee-shirt was too small for what he had in mind. He picked up the pyjama bottoms and climbed onto the bed, straddling Sherlock's waist.

'Arms up!'

Sherlock reached above his head awkwardly, favouring his right side, but John was not going to allow him any quarter for his wound. Not now. Maybe later. But not now. He slung the pant legs around one of the rails of the bedstead, and then tied Sherlock's wrists firmly to it. The skinny man strained against the bonds, but they held fast. John crabbed backwards and smacked Sherlock's flank.

'Up!'

Sherlock lifted his pelvis, and John rammed a couple of pillows underneath to raise it, then backed off further and spread the long legs out so that he could have a proper view.

Sherlock panted, his cheeks flushed, his perfect lips parted. Oh those lips! The upper one pinched and pointed like a baby's, the lower plump and full and tantalising. John couldn't help himself. Leaning forward on his fists, he kissed Sherlock fiercely, forcing his tongue into his mouth so that he moaned. Then he sat back on his haunches and looked again, taking his time.

He had never wanted a man before, never even thought of it. He liked women. He liked being inside their bodies, the warmth, the trembling hunger of them around him. Now he wanted that from Sherlock.

The former detective was straining at his bonds again, staring hungrily at John's body, and the growing erection easily visible inside the doctor's checked cotton pants.

'Please, John,' he whimpered.

'You want it?'

'Oh, God, yes!'

John reached out and lightly stroked at Sherlock's perineum, making him squirm, and then pinched his backside for wriggling. Sherlock's eyes had turned a deep blue, the pupils blown wide with reckless desire.

'Please, John,' he begged.

John got up and went to the bathroom. He rooted about in his bath bag until he found what he was looking for, a little bottle of massage oil he always carried with him for his shoulder – a self massage often quelled the pain at night, at least enough for him to sleep. Now he had another purpose in mind for it.

He stalked back to the bed, set the bottle down and carefully stripped, taking his time, and standing where Sherlock could see him clearly. He stood there for a moment, and stroked his own cock.

Sherlock groaned in desperation.

John climbed onto the bed, between Sherlock's legs and forced his feet up under his pert bottom. Then he splashed some oil into his palm and rubbed it into the cleft between those delicious buttocks, massaging the little knot of his anus. And then slipped an oily finger in.

Sherlock gasped.

John probed. He had done enough rectal examinations in his time. He knew what he was looking for, but he wanted to draw this out as long as he could, to torture Sherlock into complete submission.

He slid a second finger in. Began to ease the muscles apart. Sherlock tried to lift his hips, to push up against John's hand but he wasn't having any of it. All Sherlock got for his trouble was another smack.

And another finger. And now John allowed himself the pleasure of finding what he was looking for. The pad of his middle finger reached deep and he stroked the little spongy lump.

Sherlock nearly jumped off the bed, wrenching his shoulders.

'Jesus!' he all but screamed.

John drew his fingers out, knowing exactly what he was denying his lover. But he had decided he didn't want to wait any longer. The hunger was coiling in his belly, pressure building. He wanted that sinuous body too much now.

He splashed some more oil into his hand and set the bottle aside, then slicked it over his own cock. Sherlock craned his head up, aching to see, lips parted, fighting for breath now.

John drew close, taking his weight on one hand so that he could position himself at Sherlock's entrance. He pressed in, and held there, waiting.

Sherlock groaned in abject need. 'Please, please!'

'Just a second more,' John managed to gasp. Then he felt it go, the inner sphincter releasing, Sherlock's body loosening and opening to him. He pushed forward, a long smooth stroke, and Sherlock cried out. He held himself there, buried deep inside, up to the very hilt, and then drew back, and did it again.

Sherlock was beyond words now, every muscle in his body screwed tight, sweat breaking out along his upper lip, and down his chest and belly. John could no longer stop himself. He took the weight on both hands and began to pump, a steady rhythm. He pushed every thrust just a little too far, forcing a little yelp of pain as well as pleasure from his lover's lips. Sherlock's cock bobbed and slapped between their bellies with the motion. It was too good to waste. He shifted his weight and grasped the shaft, began to move his fist in time with his hips.

Sherlock had begun to make strange guttural noises, deep in this throat, with every in-thrust, every downward stroke.

And then he began to fall apart. Shaking, thrashing his head and jerking his hips, Sherlock came wildly, frantically, semen spurting out over his belly and chest and over John's fingers as wave after wave of contractions swept through him. The pulses in Sherlock's belly dragged John after him, the climax ripping through his body as he rammed himself home, letting out a gargantuan bellow, and then was lost in the white light of ecstasy.

When John came to his senses, he found that he had collapsed onto Sherlock, and his softening cock had slipped out of the detective's body on a little flood of fluid. He reached up stiffly and untied Sherlock's wrists. The long, slender hands immediately slid down his back and pressed hard, and Sherlock claimed his mouth with hungry kisses.

'I love you,' he murmured. 'I love you so much.'

And then there was a clatter and a thud in the next room. They froze.

A thin reedy voice rang out.

'Oh, Jooooooohnnnnnyyyyy!'

* * *

><p><em>Tomorrow: who's in the kitchen...?<br>_


	7. Chapter 7

Resurrection Ch 7

**A/N**: Once again, thank you for reviewing, favouriting, and alerting. This is a huge story for me, a big deal emotionally and as a writer, so I am grateful to everyone who reads it. {Please let me know what you think.

**Warning:** Violence

* * *

><p><em>And then there was a clatter and a thud in the next room. They froze.<em>

_A thin reedy voice rang out._

'_Oh, Jooooooohnnnnnyyyyy!'_

John felt his guts twist with hate. He had not forgotten that wheedling tone, one he had last heard on the cliffs above the Reichenbach Falls. He pressed a finger to Sherlock's lips and silently rose form the bed.

'Oh Jooooohhhnnnnny! Remember me….' The voice crooned, that sickly old song.

John slipped his hand into the bedside drawer and drew out the pistol Mycroft had given him. He quietly pushed a clip into the handle and drew back the slide to drive a cartridge into the chamber, then cocked it. Sherlock made to get up, but John staid him with an outstretched hand. Slowly, carefully, he opened the bedroom door.

In the middle of the room, Rory was standing, his face red, bent over backwards just enough to destablise him, to deter him from trying anything. His assailant was small, small enough to hide himself behind the huge Scotsman's shoulder. One hand was pinching his neck, another pressing a gun to the back of his skull.

'Oh Johnny,' came the whining brogue again. 'Haven't you been a naughty boy! Picking up homeless drunks and fucking them! How low can you go? You might catch something, you realise? And what would your precious detective say then? OH! I forgot! He's dead, isn't he, Johnny!'

John stepped forward. Rory's eyes caught him, took in his nakedness, and rolled up, the whites showing, his face a picture of fear and pain. The little Irishman tweaked his neck a little, just to keep his attention.

'Mmmm, tasty! I hope you've been using protection, Johnny boy,' he went on. A single, evil eye peeped out from behind the mammoth shoulder, scanned his body, noted the slick of semen on his belly, and came to rest on his reddened penis. 'Oh, well, maybe not.'

John slowly raised his gun.

'Oh, silly, silly. Tut tut tut.'

Then there was movement behind John. Moriarty shifted his angle to see. Sherlock must have emerged from behind the door, stepping forward into the room.

'Hello, Jim,' John heard him say calmly.

The hideous little runt moved just a little more, his eyes wide with horror, raising his head above Rory's shoulder. Just enough.

'No!' He gasped in disbelief.

John's shot hit him squarely between the eyes and he went down like a stone. Rory staggered, trying to regain his balance. John walked past him, stood over Moriarty and emptied his clip into what was left of his skull.

'Jesus, that's cold!' Rory gasped in horror.

John put the gun into his hand, pushed past Sherlock, and slammed the bathroom door behind him. A moment later they both heard the shower turned on.

* * *

><p>'Excellently executed,' Mycroft said, sitting elegantly on the sofa, his legs crossed. 'I couldn't have done it better myself. Very thorough. A shame it was necessary, however.' He glanced at Rory, who was leaning against the kitchen units looking dejected.<p>

'It's not fair to blame Rory,' John told him, rather irritated. 'The fault lies in expecting a single man to do the job of a team. Bad strategy, relying on over-confidence on your part.'

There was a sharp intake of breath from both Sherlock and Rory. A slight twitch showed up in the corner of the spymaster's eye.

'Indeed. "Who guards the Guards?" Isn't that the phrase? I apologise.'

'Thank you.'

'Nevertheless-'

'No, Mycroft, the fault is yours. It would take more than one man to patrol the perimeters of this place even in the best of circumstances. And what is more, you should be asking yourself how the hell Moriarty knew we were here.'

Sherlock hissed air out between clenched teeth.

'Oh, I am, I am,' Mycroft said, and refolded his legs on the opposite side.

'He didn't know I was here, though,' Sherlock pointed out. 'Your mole didn't tell him that.'

'Which rules out any of the locals,' John added, glancing at Rory. The big man looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be relieved, or horrified at John's provocation of his boss.

'You can rest assured I shall be thorough in my inquiries. I shall look into it personally. Very personally,' the older brother said, in a voice that sent chills down John's back. He had always known that Mycroft was capable of sending someone to do pretty much anything in the service of the nation, that he had the kind of moral compass that accepted the unacceptable as necessary in certain circumstances, but now it occurred to him that the spymaster would never send a man to do something he himself would not be willing to undertake. There was a harsh glint in his eye that suggested whoever had sold them out to Moriarty was going to experience a long, painful and lingering death at Mycroft's own hands. Still, he was angry and he wasn't going to let this go.

'Whoever did it, Moriarty would have had some serious hold over them, Mycroft,' he said. 'You can't just assume that everyone has their price.'

'I am surprised that you are willing to defend someone who almost murdered the person you love most in the world, John. What a humane man you are!'

'I just don't think you should tar everybody with Moriarty's brush, that's all.'

There was a chilly silence, which Sherlock finally broke.

'What happened about Ireland?'

Mycroft gave a bored sigh. 'Ah, the many-headed Hydra! A substantial cache of arms and drugs, and some useful paperwork, but it was not the den of thieves that I was hoping for. Still, it seems that my concerns have been headed off by your own dear doctor.'

He got up.

'Does this mean we can go home now?' Sherlock asked him, launching out of the sofa, where he had been cuddled up against John's body.

Mycroft gave him a speculative look. 'On the whole, I think not. A few loose ends to clear up. Take the week, enjoy yourselves, have a holiday. I've brought two extra men with me, they will move into the cottage next door with Rory to give you some privacy, since the immediate danger is over.' He looked down at John, who had pointedly not got up as well. 'I'm sure you will appreciate the time together.'

Sherlock saw him out, and closed the door softly. There were a few thuds and shouts from next door as the new men moved their kit in and settled down. John glimpsed Mycroft's strapping frame stride off towards a waiting car. Sherlock stood at the window, watching him go, then came back and sat down next to John.

'John, you know I wouldn't normally say this, but speaking to Mycroft like that just now wasn't one of your brighter ideas.'

'You wouldn't normally say it? You criticise me all the time!'

'Yes, but this is different. There's brave, and then there's asking for it. You saw him. He's not in any mood to be messed with.'

John got up and began to jab at the logs in the wood-burner viciously. He threw another one in, and slammed the doors shut.

'Who does he think he is, coming here, criticising anyway? Whose fault was it in the first place? He was fucking asking to be decked if you ask me!'

Sherlock stared up at him in shock.

'Look, I know he's your brother, but he's such a prick!'

'Utterly,' Sherlock agreed. 'He is, however, an extremely dangerous prick.'

'Alright, alright!' John held his hands up. 'I give in. It was stupid. I promise I won't do it again!'

Sherlock slumped back in the couch and looked up at the doctor, frowning.

'You'd better tell me what's the matter,' he said.

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><p><em>Tomorrow: Sherlock is forced to face up to the damage he has caused…<em>


	8. Chapter 8

Resurrection Ch 8

**A/N:** Once again, thank you for all your help and reading. I love to know what you think so please, please tell me. Also, I hope this chapter will settle any worries about why John was pretty rough with Sherlock….

**Warning:** Angst

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><p>'<em>You'd better tell me what's the matter,' he said.<em>

'Apart from Mycroft being a prick, obviously.'

John sighed and flopped down next to him. 'Stuff.'

'Do try to be a little more specific.' Sherlock reached out and pulled him in. John sprawled over the rangy body, buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

'I want a cup of tea,' he said.

'Okay, let's start with a cup of tea and work from there,' Sherlock sighed, pushing him off.

Once the kettle had boiled, they sat at the kitchen table and cupped their mugs between their palms. John sipped quietly. Sherlock watched him and waited. It took a long time for John to work up to saying anything, and when it finally came, the sound of his voice was so loud against the stillness of the house and the rushing of the wind outside that it made them both flinch.

'That thing I did-'

'Yes?'

'Earlier. That wasn't me. It's not what I'm like.'

'John, you killed a man practically within hours of our first becoming acquainted! I don't think another, who, let's be honest, needed to be put down with as extreme prejudice as possible, makes much difference in terms of what you are capable of!'

'No, not that! I don't have a problem with offing Moriarty. It was a positive pleasure, and a service to humanity.'

'What then?'

John couldn't look him in the eye. He kept thinking about what he had done, those freakish, passionate moments of violence that had preceded Moriarty's appearance, playing like a sick movie behind his eyes.

Sherlock twigged. 'Ah.'

'I have no idea why I –' he couldn't finish the sentence.

'Are you sorry we-'

'No, no, never that.' He reached out and gripped Sherlock's hand, squeezed it as hard as he could, but then had to let go. 'It's just all that – well – I don't know. I don't know what made me do it.'

'I do.' Sherlock sat back in his chair and looked at John with a strange expression.

'What?'

'And you do too, if you are honest. You just aren't being honest, are you?'

John stared at him.

'All your life,' Sherlock went on. 'In the army and in medicine, you've been used to being in charge, being in control. You speak and people jump to attention, do what you tell them. And then I come along.'

There was a weird detachment in his voice, a hollowness.

'I've taken over your life. You jump when I call. You do as I tell you. You've never had less control in your entire existence than when you are with me. I think you had to take it back.'

John could hardly believe his ears. Sherlock was being emotionally intelligent for the first time.

'Tell me I'm wrong,' Sherlock dared him. 'Tell me exactly what you were feeling when you walked through that door with the syringe in your hand.'

John tore his eyes from the beautiful man sitting beside him, the face that he had longed for through so many months. He stared out at the grass being lashed by the elements in the meadow beyond the cottage. His hand was shaking.

'I hated you.' His voice quavered as he spoke. 'I hated you as much as I wanted you. All those months Sherlock, all those months. I used to sit at the kitchen table with my gun at night, all loaded up, and in the morning, I'd be amazed I'd made it through another night. That would have fucked up your plans, wouldn't it, if I had killed myself? But what was the point in keeping going, in a world without you in it? Living a half life, a ghost's life? I was so angry at you for going up that sodding mountain, for going alone, without me. I couldn't believe you could have been so stupid as to play right into the bastard's hands, especially after the pool thing. I was furious with you for leaving me, for throwing your life away, your precious, beautiful life, and mine too, along with it.

'You took over everything. The pain took me over. Waking and sleeping. There wasn't a moment when I didn't feel the agony of missing you, longing for you, this physical pain in my chest every minute of the day, and yes, I hated you for that, for taking away my life and my mind, every thought I had. It was all you, Sherlock, every last minute, and I so resented it, even though I wanted you and loved you so much.

'And then you came back. Suddenly there you were, sitting in my bath, looking so impossibly beautiful and real and perfect, and I had everything that I had so longed for, so much, and I was so happy, so incredibly happy to have you back. But you had no idea what you had done to me. All those months, you could have come back but you didn't. You just watched me go on suffering, Sherlock! Any time you could have stopped it, but you didn't. And the more I thought about it, the more I hated you for that, for leaving me without a clue, for standing by and watching my pain and not doing a bloody thing to give me any help or hope.

'I wanted you to know how much that hurt. I wanted to make you suffer. I wanted you to feel a little of what I'd been through. Because no matter how tough it's been for you, Sherlock, at least you knew I was still alive. At least you had hope. I didn't. I had nothing! You left me with nothing, do you understand that? I wanted to hurt you as much as I wanted your body. And I did want your body. Badly. I wanted to possess you. I wanted to make you grovel and beg me for forgiveness. I wanted to be in charge, just for a change. To make you know how it felt, all those long months, aching for you, yearning for your touch, your smell, the sound of your voice.

'I wanted to hurt you so much. I've never felt that way before about anybody. It disgusts me. It disgusts me that I could hate someone I love so much, that I could hate _you_ that much, but I did. It makes me sick, because it's not who I am. I don't hate. But it's what you've made me into. I hated myself too. I still do. I am ashamed and disgusted and I don't know what to do.'

The colour had drained from Sherlock's face. He sat with his palms flat on the table, his eyes never leaving John's features, and when the wind had gone out of John's monologue, he still sat there, frozen.

John couldn't bear to look at him, couldn't bear to have Sherlock's eyes on him. He was too disgusted with himself.

'I need to get out of your way. I need to be on my own.'

He got up and pulled on a coat. 'Going for a walk,' he said, and the door slammed behind him.

* * *

><p>Sheets of drizzle rode on the wind, lashing his body as he stomped through the field. It was icy cold, and his coat was almost immediately drenched. He crossed the meadow, scuffing through the tussocky grass, and clambered over the dry stone wall that separated the crofts' pasture from the coarser whin that bordered the sand dunes beyond. Crouching down, his back to the granite slabs, the wall gave him shelter from the wind. He looked out across the churning sea and gave up. His body shook as he sobbed and sobbed till there was no breath left in him, and he slumped back onto his side in the sodden grass.<p>

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><p><em>Tomorrow: How will Sherlock respond…?<em>


	9. Chapter 9

Resurrection Ch 9

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone one once again for reviewing and favouriting. I love you all. I'm currently having a nervous breakdown about Sunday though, trying to decide whether to watch it or not. I hope you are feeling better about it than me….

**Warning:** ahoy, there, reconciliation off the port bow!

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><p>It was getting dark by the time he finally managed to stumble back through the front door of the warm little cottage. The embers in the stove were the only lights. His teeth were chattering, and he was soaked to the skin.<p>

Sherlock did not look up. He was still sitting at the table, exactly as John had left him, his palms down, fingers spread out, face grey.

'Sherlock?'

John's voice juddered as he spoke. The man at the table showed no sign of having heard. He sat frozen, staring at his fingers.

John peeled off his dripping coat and switched on the light with numb fingers. Sherlock blinked in the brilliance. John staggered towards him and fell into the chair he had left kicked out in his hurry to escape. His hands were shaking with the cold as he reached out and grasped Sherlock's.

'Sherlock?' he whispered.

The pale eyes swept over the table top and finally reached his face. It took John a moment to assimilate the agony in them.

'I don't know how you can even bear to look at me,' the detective croaked.

John swept him into his arms and held him as tight as he could, but Sherlock did not respond. So he pulled back and looked up into that long, equine face.

'I can look at you because I love you,' he insisted, firmly, realising what was going on behind that mask of anguish.

'I'll get Mycroft to move me somewhere else. You don't have to see me again.'

'Look at me Sherlock!' John commanded, fighting back the rising panic. 'Look at me!'

The blue eyes rose, fixed on his.

'Now listen to me! Are you listening? Because this is very, very important.'

Sherlock nodded, stiffly.

'Okay,' John stalled, trying to formulate his words clearly. 'You hurt me, and I hurt you. An eye for an eye. That doesn't mean anything except that we are _both_ idiots! Do you understand me, Sherlock? You are not going to leave me again, do you hear? _Never again_! I love you. I have always loved you, and I always will. We are nothing without each other. But if you can look me in the eye right now and tell me you don't feel the same then by all means, walk through that door. But you can't, can you?'

Sherlock stared at him, and after a long, long time, shook his head, and rested his forehead against John's sodden shirt.

Eventually, John lifted Sherlock's head up, his fingertips gently on his chin. He was expecting tears, but there were none, only that same, implacable expression of shock and pain.

'Sherlock, what we have is something special, something amazing. Please don't let's fuck it up? I think we could really have a chance, you and me. Not one in a thousand couples have a chance like it. We could really be happy together. For the rest of our lives.'

'How can you ever forgive me, after what I've done to you?' Sherlock whispered, looking as if he was afraid of the sound of his own voice.

'Maybe forgiveness isn't what it's about.' John stroked his cheek softly. 'I'm so sick of the pain, Sherlock, so sick of the grief and the misery of it. I'm tired. I just want to be happy again. I want to let it all go.'

'How can you forget it?'

'We can't forget, that's the point. If we forget, we'll forget how important we are to each other, how much we love each other, how terrible it is to be apart. What we have to do is learn from it. Not pretend it never happened, just let it go and move on.'

'Can you do that?'

'I can. The question is, can you?'

'I'll do anything for you.' Was it John's imagination, or was the mask beginning to lift slightly? Perhaps those pale eyes were not so cold now, not so empty. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock's lips lightly.

'That's my boy,' he smiled. And Sherlock smiled back. A little uncertainly, but it was definitely a smile, and it felt like the sun coming out after a long, cold winter. And then the tears came, drops of liquid brimming at the rims of those large eyes, gathering in those dark lashes like molten silver.

'Oh, my love, no more,' John whispered, and kissed them away. Sherlock clung to him, gasping for air like a beached fish.

'I thought I'd lost you again,' he whimpered.

'Never.'

After a while, Sherlock murmured in his ear: 'John, you're wet through.'

'That would be the rain.'

'Oh.' Sherlock raised his head and looked into John's eyes. There was a faint glow of something coming back, a hint of impishness perhaps.

'Better get you out of these wet clothes then,' he suggested.

* * *

><p>They lay in bed, naked and warm, snuggling under the duvet. John stroked Sherlock's curls absently, staring at the ceiling. It was so perfect just to lie together, to be still, listening to the weather ranting outside and being warm and safe within.<p>

'There have to be some ground rules, of course,' John mused.

'Like?' Sherlock rolled onto his back so that his head was touching John's.

'No more keeping secrets. None of these hair-brained plans, or making decisions about our future without telling me. You have to tell me what's going on in that fat head of yours, or we're stuffed.'

'And you have to tell me how you are feeling,' Sherlock agreed.

'Communication,' John said. 'Basis of all great partnerships.'

'And lots of sex,' Sherlock grinned. He rolled on top of John and kissed him. There was a naughty twinkle in his eye.

'And no going off risking your life without me, or for no real reason. You're too precious,' John went on.

'If you say so.'

'I do say so. I should bloody know. We work together. As a team.'

'Yes.'

Sherlock nuzzled his nose into John's breastbone, and then sank his teeth in experimentally.

'Ow! No biting!'

'You'll have to spank me if I'm naughty,' Sherlock grinned. John grabbed his wrists, jerked them above his head, and forced him onto his back, straddling him.

'Behave!' he laughed. 'I'm trying to be serious!'

'I'm making a serious point too!' Sherlock complained.

'Which is?'

'That I like it when you dominate me in bed.'

John let go of Sherlock's wrists and sat back. 'I'm more the cuddling type'.

'I like cuddling too. I'm just saying that if you did want to tie me up and spank me again, I wouldn't be averse to it.'

He looked down at the beautiful man between his legs. He let his eyes follow the perfect planes of Sherlock's chest, the long slender neck, the elegant jaw, the rapier cheekbones, those tender lips.

He sighed. 'Not now. I'm too in love with you tonight.'

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><p><em>Tomorrow: The final instalment….<em>


	10. Chapter 10

Resurrection Ch 10

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone for sharing this adventure with me. I have relished your comments, and am very grateful for your time and effort. I hope this last little slice makes you happy. We could all do with a bit of happy before Sunday, couldn't we?

**Warning:** Gay sex. With sand in the cracks.

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><p>The next day dawned brilliant and still.<p>

'Storm's blown itself out,' said Rory when he brought them breakfast, rashers of bacon and eggs, plump, meaty sausages, mushrooms crispy with butter and lush, juicy, grilled tomatoes.

John sat down at the table in front of his plate and surveyed the feast. 'Rory, I want to marry you and have your babies.'

'Get in the queue then,' he grinned, slapping a bottle of ketchup on the table. 'I've already had offers from the boys next door.'

Sherlock tweaked John's knee under the table and stole the ketchup from under his hand while he was still in the resulting confusion.

They decided they would go and explore the beach which Mycroft had been so enthusiastic about on their arrival. They dressed in the heavy outdoor gear that filled the cupboards and drawers in the bedroom, Gor-tex fleeces and coats, Rohan trousers and Timberland boots amongst other things – Mycroft clearly had expensive taste when it came to kitting out his inmates, and John thought militantly that all this had better be coming out of Mycroft's pocket and not the public purse because if it were his taxes, he'd be just as happy with M&S, thank you very much. Sherlock looked rather odd in casual clothes and clumpy boots. They didn't suit him at all, but they were perfectly suited to the environment, and these days he seemed happy with anything once his belly was full.

They did not bother to lock the front door behind them, knowing Rory and his handmaidens of doom were next door, so they struck out across the meadow and vaulted the drystone wall with a love-fuelled spring in their steps.

An animal track between the dunes led them down to the strand, a thin strip of pure white sand edging a gently rippling sea. The storm had ripped mountains of kelp off the sea bed and thrown it onto the shore, and they hunted about in it. Sherlock discovered the long ribbons of rubbery weed made a satisfying snap if flicked like a bullwhip, which resulted in him chasing a giggling John about under threat of a good whipping. At the end of the beach, a thick seam of granite ran down to the water, forming a plateau of rock pools. They spent a long while crouching over the little ponds, while John explained the childhood lore of sand hoppers and crabs, of sea anemones and bladderwrack, because Sherlock had never had a seaside holiday. He was surprised at what an enthusiastic pupil the skinny detective proved to be. He was all for tearing the cottage apart in search of the raw materials to make a pond dipping net, and then returning armed with a bucket in addition, to carry home their prizes.

They built complex ramparts in the sand against the sea, and then sat on a rock to watch the tide come in and break them down, arms tightly wrapped around one another. A few yards out, gannets were diving like daggers into the waves, plunge after plunge. The soft breeze made the whin grass on the dunes hiss a duet with the surf.

Then, Sherlock took John's hand and led him down amongst the rocks, where the sun warmed the sand and the granite sheltered them from the wind. They lay down together, and Sherlock kissed him, and gently began to untuck his shirt, sliding his chilly fingers underneath. The sun was hot on John's cheeks as he lay back, blinking sleepily with the heat, while Sherlock pressed little fluttering kisses across his belly. The eddies of the breeze blew little blasts of sand against his exposed skin. The air smelt of salt and ice and iodine. High above, an arctic tern was riding the thermals, sharp wings like scalpels in the air. Sherlock kissed his way down John's body, slender fingers deft with his belt buckle. The large warm mouth closed over him, moist and deep, sucking gently. John wanted to close his eyes, or look, or do something, anything, but he was overwhelmed by the sudden realisation of absence.

The pain had finally gone. The pain of his grief, that dull, nagging ache that had lived under his ribs like a troll under a bridge for nearly a year, threatening to devour him, the pain he had despaired of ever escaping again. It was gone.

Tears streaked unbidden down his temples as he lay in the sand with the love of his life caressing him, gorging on him, tender and passionate.

He knew it would come back one day. But he prayed impulsively to a God he hardly believed in:

_Not yet, God. Not just yet. Give us thirty years or so. I'll be ready then._

FIN


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